I am from a few squeaky doors,
A bushel of dog toys and old wine bottles.
I am from scraps of paper littering the floor
That hold no space for more words.
I am from the child's favorite fortress,
The jungle gym,
Where I made so many friends,
New or imagined.
I am from old photos and new memories,
From broken wind chimes,
Fixed with the know-how of children long gone.
I am from Samantha and Alexandra,
Who brought back my lost childhood,
From Charles, the dad I never knew,
And Bernadette, the mother I never had.
I am from live and let live,
There's no way it's love,
And many handfuls of doubtful words.
From shoe boxes piled eight deep,
My lost childhood rears his head.
I am from gift bags full of photos,
And an old Baskin box in my closet,
Stuck on the highest shelf full of dolls and such,
Where my memory stays closed off.
I am from those cereal nights,
And from the Italian cooking they wish was good.
I am from my own way,
The path carved by my own means.
From my heart,
I know no matter what is,
I am safely shadowed from life.
I am from deceit, fabrication and lies,
Which took no hold until I had to get out,
And will forever after shape my existence.